


love of mine (someday you will die)

by kxyokosxn



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Magical Realism, Self-Acceptance, Shinigami!Shiratorizawa, Unrequited Love, akaashi needs rest, anyone who deals with tooru in this one needs rest, asshole!tooru is canon, mentions of suicide attempts but nothing graphic, no one rlly dies bc theyre immortal, oikawa is a god btw, references to religious afterlives, so does suga tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 08:40:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19422436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kxyokosxn/pseuds/kxyokosxn
Summary: tooru has to learn that love is not always about reciprocation.





	love of mine (someday you will die)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skittidyne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skittidyne/gifts).



> HEY HEY HEY!!! this is my first oikawa centric fic and i was like "oh. oH U FUCKE D UP BASTARD HOW DO I WRITE YOU" bc hes rlly more than the pretty boy facade he puts out so here it is my baby,,, my lovely baby child who i slaved over since may and unfortunately the situation is still the same except now i have school and. aaAaaAaa
> 
> as im writing this it is currently 2:41am why am i like this
> 
> anyways,,, i want to thank kylah, who listened to me whine and rant about how great Oikawa Tooru is, and how hard writing is (she's too nice to say i suck but because of u i am now Here) and luigi, who i sent screenshots of how many words i was racking up and though he isnt a huge haikyuu fan still requested i send him the link once i finish it (im not yet finished but here's part one aaaaaa)
> 
> and lastly, to skittidyne, whose work "like hollywood stars" inspired me to write a haikyuu fic abt gods n stuff. hey!! if youre reading this!!! i know im being annoying asf rn and stuff but i rlly wanna say that particular work made me full of all sorts of fuzzy feelings and sad feelings and idk so this Happened
> 
> and to anyone reading this: i am Touched. Moved. u are absolutely Spectacular. leave behind your thoughts and i will Get To It.
> 
> !!! also if i miss any tags, pls just tell me & i will fix it hhhh thats all i guess??? enjoy this mess (the akaakawa friendship is a headcanon im prepared to Die for)

Oikawa Tooru reflects often and very rigorously. The snapshots of his life are all laid out to him, vignettes of better times, honest reflections of what used to be, and what cannot continue.

It makes sense that he does it often. He has made a lot of mistakes, after all, and sometimes, those catch up to you, even when primed and oiled and apparently one who can no longer do no wrong.

No, being a god doesn’t mean you don’t have regrets. Being a god just triples it.

* * *

Tooru watches the snow fall on the window pane with a look of silent contemplation; his breath fogs up the glass, and for lack of anything better to do, he starts to draw little squiggly hearts on it.

He’s bored out of his mind. There’s nothing he can do during the holidays—there are no loose ends to tie off besides the occasional straggler. There’s just something about the overabundance of snow and good cheer that just makes the rate for heartbreak shoot straight down. The festivals definitely help, too. Those things were breeding grounds for romance. Food stalls, and fireworks, and seeing the people you love in _yukata_? Even Tooru could admit that it was romantic, though in an overused, cliché sort of way.

The romance seems to leak into their walls and drip through their ceilings; the shrine’s twin flames, Yahaba and Kyoutani, are no better. Despite their usual insistence on keeping their distance, they’re nuzzling into each other using the weather as an excuse for the proximity. Tooru could barely keep himself from rolling his eyes; they’re both literally floating balls of foxfire, good Lord. Who were they kidding?

Even with his itching desire to remain occupied, Tooru is thankful he doesn’t see a single coin in his offering box. He knows that with it comes a plea for things to change, and he’d rather not deal with another mortal cursing his existence. It always felt like a burning behind his ears when he kept prayers unanswered, but he didn’t have much say in how things worked.

Sure, he’s an omnipresent deity, and he did have revenue over all those scorned and unreciprocated. Still, he had no more power than a mortal when it came to reasoning with things even larger than himself.

It makes him bitter, sometimes. What little control he has over something he was supposed to be in charge of, but he makes do. He always does.

Besides, what do his believers think Tooru could do against something even older and more powerful than he is? Call him a nasty bastard, but his way has always been the most efficient, a surefire method to victory, one that he earns by clawing his way through mud and dirt. This is not any different. Love is fickle, at its kindest. At its cruelest, it burns down cities and razes cathedrals. What were the mortals thinking—that gods could talk reason to something so easily unhinged?

He breathes out a sigh, feeling sorry for himself. The holidays aren’t the time to be ruminating. He should’ve really gotten himself a date this year.

Tooru plops down on the wooden floor of his shrine with an overdramatic sigh. He has always been on motivated by greed (greed for progress, greed for revenge, _greed, greed, greed_ ), and even now when he has everything he can’t find it in himself to be satisfied. He really shouldn’t be spending so much of his immortality thinking about the semantics. _How did I end up here_ . It’s a bad habit, the overthinking. He got it from a life of facades and masks and lies. He got it from a life of stealing and charming and working harder than everyone else; that being said, tenacity could only get you so far in a world of deities and power plays and heaven—so many versions of it. _How did I end up here without you._

A wind chime he’s hung on shrine entrance tinkles cheerfully, completely derailing his line of thought, and he immediately looks up, eyes narrowing in suspicion. He’s charmed it so it only makes sounds when he has guests; that’s all well and good, except for one teeny tiny detail.

He never has any visitors.

It’s already rare enough for people know where he’s decided to erect his temple—it’s hidden deep in the mountains, with its untended lawns and uncared for marble floors, neglected but not completely upset about it—and it’s even rarer for them to request an audience with him.

You see, Tooru had a reputation for being unfavorable company; the only person who was brave enough (or maybe stupid enough) to come by on occasion was Ushijima, and even then, he usually didn’t get past the magical barricades. That wasn’t even completely Tooru’s fault; sure, he could be petty, but the twin flames had administration over the barriers, and even they weren’t particularly fond of Miracle Boy Wakatoshi—not that it was a surprise. _Shinigamis_ were often followed by feelings of remorse and ire.

But he was spectacular. Ushijima that is. Tooru has never understood how he was both jealous and in awe of him.

“I don’t want to talk to anyone today.” Tooru grunts. Despite this, the tinkling continues and so do the click clack of footsteps. “Yahaba-chan, Kyouken-chan, kindly stop snogging and—”

Yahaba floats towards Tooru, glowing out a series of colors that he interprets to be a sheepish apology. He’s confused for a brief moment by the strange behavior, until he hears the knob turn.

“You let them in,” he accuses, wide eyed, and Yahaba draws closer still to nuzzle him in the cheek like an appeasement, turning a calm shade of blue. “You’re supposed to be guardians of the shrine—Kyouken-chan, you too?”

Kyoutani burns bright red, letting out a few sparks, and Tooru gasps out a scandalised, “Language!” Yahaba’s yellow now, so he’s probably amused and laughing, and Tooru just feels attacked.

The door creaks open to reveal a man in an ornate purple kimono enters the room, holding a wooden fan in front of his face, successfully hiding his most of features with the exception of his sharp eyes. His most notable feature are his fox ears—located on either side of his head and a silverish grey, moving this way and that as he detects slight variations in the air.

Yahaba sets off a series of energetic light, understandably excited at seeing his creator, and zooms past Tooru to join Kyoutani in greeting their visitor.

“Kitsune-kun, what a pleasant surprise!”

Akaashi Keiji’s eyes crinkle from behind his fan. He’s smiling, though he’s pretending not to, and Tooru smiles. “I have a name, Oikawa-san.”

“Really?”

“Ha.” Akaashi deadpans. “Funny.”

Tooru is immediately in a better mood (who wouldn’t be, after seeing a face as pretty as Akaashi’s?) though he doesn’t show signs of moving from where he lay prostrated on the polished wooden boards, as languid and careless as a cat. “How have the holidays been?”

Akaashi pulls at his sleeve, using the hand that wasn’t holding his fan to pet at the squabbling flames who push each other out of the way, fighting over who gets to receive the god’s attention. Tooru looks on with amusement as Akaashi whispers, “good work, looking after him,” at the flames, like he wasn’t right _there,_ and they burn brighter at the praise. Satisfied, the fox spirit turns his attention away from them.

“The usual, Oikawa-san,” he says, simple and straightforward. His wooden sandals click clack on the floor as he nears. “Have you been well?”

“Oh, the same, it’s all the same for me, trapped here in the confines of my own mind.” Kyoutani glows a disapproving red, bumping into his shoulder. Tooru chooses to ignore him. “Not that I’m not completely pissing my pants because you’re here, Akaa-chan—”

Yahaba flashes orange. A scolding.

“—but to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Ushijima-san, actually. He wanted me to drop in, check on your work ethic.”

“Oh~ so you’re here to get my ass in gear?” he winks, only to be met with an unimpressed look. “By all means, please do.”

“I’d prefer it if you just worked harder.”

“Still so intense,” Tooru snorts a laugh, holding up his head with one hand. “Don’t worry! You can tell Ushiwaka-chan that his message has been well and truly received. That despicable slave driver is really driving me crazy.”

Akaashi hums, finally taking the fan away from his face and snapping it closed. “He’ll be glad to hear it, though I’m not sure why he cares when you don’t even work in the same department.”

Akaashi knows why Ushijima is acting like Tooru’s own personal babysitter and they both know it. The look the kitsune gives him now is so reminiscent of an owl sizing up a mouse scurrying through the undergrowth that he’s left slightly off kilter. Still, he recovers gracefully enough for it not be considered a misstep—he’s had more than enough practice with deflection.

“Well, that’s not the point now, is it? My senseless pride is not what we’re here for, mhm?”

Akaashi backs off—an owl deciding the meal is not worth the hunt. “I suppose.”

“Is that all?”

It’s a standoff between both their egos. Tooru would never admit that he felt lonely, and likewise, Akaashi would never admit to coming up here because he was worried. In the end, it’s a compromise.

“Do you have plans?”

Tooru almost laughs. Of course not. “No.”

“Soju?”

“I’m in the mood for beer, actually.”

The _kitsune_ , never one for tiresome conversations, conjures several cans of beer, watching them line up neatly on the floor as Tooru gives the cheap parlour trick an overly enthusiastic series of claps.

“Of course Akaa-kun wouldn’t let me spend the holidays alone,” he says, straightening up to a sitting position and grabbing at a can with something resembling excitement, “How very valiant of you!”

Akaashi doesn’t say anything as he folds himself on the floor beside Tooru, significantly more proper in the way he positions himself, and he delicately accepts the beer can he’s offered. It looks so out of place that it’s almost funny; it’s so hard to imagine the sophisticated _kitsune_ as a willing drinking buddy, but here he is in all his glory.

“It gets awfully boring,” Akaashi replies, deceptively nonchalant, “when you live this long.”

It’s silent for a long while. Yahaba and Kyoutani edge closer, sensing the settling melancholy—the former lands on Tooru’s shoulder rather ungracefully while the latter chooses the space between Akaashi’s two fox ears, glowing a content cerulean blue.

“It does,” Tooru agrees, with false cheer. “But such is the price for immortality, right, Akaa-kun?”

They watch the snow falls and the fireworks start as they clink their beer cans together and both take a sip.

* * *

The gist of Tooru’s current (eternal) predicament is this: he doesn’t like what he does.

He’s not alone when it came to that regard. There were thousands upon thousands of minor gods, and a good amount of them were unrecognised: Oikawa Tooru is unfortunately just a single (unwilling) speck of dust in the sea of the vastly underappreciated majority. While he most definitely doesn’t enjoy being ordinary, detests the idea more than he should, he’s not sure he wants to be remembered for what he is right now. It’ll only leave him with a bitter taste in his mouth, to hell with the leagues of adoring worshippers and the prickling smell of ceremonial incense.

Similar to many other lesser gods, he was given the duty after death. He now lords over a great many, all of whom encumbered with the same predicament he had in life. It’s simple really, when you understand them: they want all want some form of respite and are looking for some kind of fix to get their dopamine in working order.

He’s said it a thousand times, and he’ll say it a thousand more—it’s not solely because of senseless pride that he refuses to do his job, but because he simply cannot. It reminds him too much of warm smiles and warm hands and warm words for it not to be anything but detrimental. Everything is warm, warm, _warm_ —

—being cold is still something he has to grow accustomed to.

Ushijima has told him once that he shouldn’t complain. “You are one of the chosen and it’s ungrateful to act beneath what you are,” were his exact words. They were honest, brutally so, and he shouldn’t have hated him for that, but he isn’t one for sense. Tooru, frankly, would’ve preferred the promise of Paradise. He would’ve preferred literally _anything else._ Did the Gods really think he’d like a daily reminder of how pathetic he is?

Despite all that Ushijima said, he was much too proud and too loyal to the system to really know anything; Tooru, thankfully, does not share the same brand of ignorance. Of course Ushijima would be a bonehead, and of course it just happens that wherever he went, his pack of loyal guard dogs followed. It’s almost funny. It would’ve been, if Ushijima’s broad back didn’t remind him too much of another. It would’ve been, if the way he stood straight, like an oak tree, unshakeable and stern and dependable, didn’t rattle memories like dewdrops from a leaf.

(It would’ve been if the way Tendou reaches out his hand for a bit of time under the golden warmth of Ushijima didn’t remind Tooru of himself a lifetime ago.)

He knows that being a god is just a roundabout way of saying that “you did so much of this while you were alive that you might as well be in charge of it”—in some cases, it’s also a form of damnation, specifically tailored for those who didn’t do anything particularly remarkable when their hearts were still beating.

He’s not sure which one he is. He thinks he’d rather not know.

However, all that aside, this was certainly not what he had imagined when he thought about his afterlife, and that was saying something because he thought about it so much that it started to border obsession.

There were so many versions of life after death and what it entailed _._ He always wondered what specific adaptation would get it right. Was it going to be Dante’s Divine Comedy, or Hades’s Underworld, or the Buddhists’ reincarnation, or did the afterlife not exist at all?

He was always so fascinated by the unending existence after his demise and what it implied; unfortunately, this wasn’t one of the choices he thought would be available to him, and now all the pseudo preparation was all for naught. What was all the hours spent cultivating an escape plan for the Inferno for now, anyway? He’s spent hours on it—a well-worn copy of the book being his only witness, with its abused and weathered text and the dog eared pages. There has even been a whole debate on whether or not seducing Persephone (or Hades) would be worth it, if he did find himself in the Fields of Punishment.

He wonders why he wasn’t just assigned to be some kind of _shinigami_ instead. The Primordial Gods really fucked him over with that one, though he’d never say anything about it loud because his alarming need for self-preservation. He thinks he must know about the concept enough, but he also knows that his animosity with the pack leader, Ushijima, wouldn’t look good on his résumé. The rest of the death gods were so far up his ass it was almost funny; being the ace of the squadron for unjust death made people afraid, and when fear comes, so does admiration. They work in tandem, even more than even Tooru understands.

Besides, internal hostility in units was to be avoided whenever possible to conduct the best kind of working environment, and that was rigidly enforced to the point of exile.

Being a god isn’t permanent. Some outgrow their positions, others are advised to take another title, and what’s left display enough impertinence to warrant their own fall from grace. No one really knows what happens to the disorderly ones when they’re exiled and no one tries to ask. There’s rumours of them being sent to the Hall of Spirits, where they would mingle with those too unworthy to become gods, memories wiped and slate clean. Ironically enough, that has always been Tooru’s goal, even if the Gods think it punishment. That’s why he picks fights and takes unnecessary risks and indulges in human vices.

That’s probably also why he isn’t in Shiratorizawa squadron, despite Ushijima’s urging. It’d be so easy. So, so easy.

_You are strong, and love is already—_

He understands that his shrine is one of little renown and even littler following, and he understands why people treat him like a death god—if they ignore him, then he doesn’t exist, and when they do come to him, it’s to beg him for small mercies.

_—quite similar to death. It shouldn’t be a problem._

It isn’t like Ushijima is wrong. It’s the opposite actually—annoyingly enough. People who dabble in death and love always come out of it a little warped. A little angry. A little peculiar.

Ushijima, who specializes in death by illness, has memorised every medicinal plant known to man because of his own personal, if not useless, desire to help. He could name them, what they’re for, where they grow, and how they’re prepared without even blinking. Miya Atsumu, god of mad love, has seen even more death than actual _shinigamis_ , and his twin, Miya Osamu, who collects souls whose lives were cut short by greed, lives by a doctrine of simplicity. Tendou Satori, god of violent deaths, tattooes every innocent name that he’s had to reap into his body, and Tooru—well, he is a god who wants to die.

It’s funny. He thinks of Ushijima’s eyes—too old even for a god of his age, and he thinks he could do without the added gore. He doesn’t like Ushijima enough to care about his _You should’ve come to Shiratorizawa_ bullshit. He’s settled in well enough where he is, and though he doesn’t exactly enjoy it, he does what he can. It’s all he can do, really; throwing tantrums won’t help any, and unfortunately, he’s saying this with past experience in the matter.

He is who he is: he’s Oikawa Tooru, god of unrequited love. A classic.

He doesn’t find it amusing at all, and he’s sure even God with the capital ‘G’ is aware of it.

* * *

**[ we met in this snapshot. ]**

It’s raining. A young Oikawa Tooru pouts, glaring at the ceaseless downpour with enough animosity to warrant an incredulous eyebrow raise from his sister whose almost as condescending as he is.

“What are you doing?” she asks. Being cunning is a trait he’s learned from years with her omniscient eyes and fox like grin. “I don’t think you have the luxury to mope. Our company has arrived, and you shouldn’t embarrass Mother.”

Their mother, ostracized for her career choices and lack of a husband, apparently made a friend, and this dinner has been something she’s been looking forward for some time. Tooru’s happy for her, of course he is. Mother never gets to have afternoon tea and salacious gossip sessions and she must want them very badly, but everyone is too judgmental to the single mother who recites sonnets and plays piano and dances so earnestly to the foreign music in one of the shadiest places in town—an old rundown theatre in the Forbidden City.

She’s been singing since this morning, and Tooru knows that she only sings when she’s happy. While she was cooking up their meal, she promised Tooru that the family would be bringing their son along, a robust boy Tooru’s age, and he was understandably excited by the idea of it. His sister never played with him, after all; she was lacklustre and unmotivated the way Tooru was almost brash in his passions.

“I know they’re here,” he says, indignant.

“Tooru, is this another one of your ridiculous tantrums? Come on now, this just won’t do. It would only reflect badly on Mother.”

“I wanted to play,” he tells her with a pout as he looks at the rain. “I was so excited, onee-san.”

“That’s not a problem anymore, is it? Lo and behold, your playmate has arrived.”

“There’s no way we can play now without getting wet.”

Tooru’s sister smirks, a faint jab. There’s always something that looks a little mean about her, but he knows more than anyone she doesn’t mean any harm. She ruffles his hair, scoffing. “Tooru, you have to be more creative than that,” she admonishes. “Get the chessboard out and hurry along to the living room. You don’t want the poor boy to think you dislike him, do you?”

“Of course not!” Tooru gasps. His sister snorts from behind him when he makes to dash to the living room, determined.

The boy he meets is decidedly not upset, with furrowed eyebrows and a mean looking mouth. Tooru is hesitant until the boy smiles a smile so unrestrained that it hurts Tooru’s eyes a little to look at him.

“My name is Oikawa Tooru,” he declares, primly, with a slight little bow of his head.

The boy waits for him to straighten up before he introduces himself as “Iwaizumi Hajime,” with a bow of his own.

An agreement is made.

Outside, the rain stops.

* * *

He’s having drinks with Akaashi Keiji in a pub in the human world—it’s starting to become an unfortunate habit, their pathetic attempts at destroying their livers. It doesn’t work. Won’t work. He knows this, so he’s not exactly sure where they’re heading out tonight, but he does have the premise that it’s somewhere vaguely European.

Yahaba’s made sure that he look his most presentable. Experience has taught him that Tooru left to his own devices would only cause more problems than he knew what to do with, so the flame spent all day yesterday in human form, buying clothes for his lord.

Akaashi, unlike Yahaba’s nervous deflection, had no qualms calling out his poor fashion tense, and he raises an eyebrow when Tooru approaches which is probably telling of Yahaba’s expertise. Akaashi himself is wearing another one of his kimonos, but it’s black and gold this time, tied together with a white obi—Tooru smirks because this one strangely resembles the colours of that owl spirit that’s been courting him for three seasons now.

“ _Wah~_ what a pretty kimono, kitsune-kun, and it’s a different color from the last one, too! Where’d you get it from?”

It’s a jab, meant to irritate, and they both know it. “Bokuto-san,” he replies, wry, “And who must I thank for this?”

Tooru laughs as Akaashi looks at him, up and down, brows pinched in. “Kyouken-chan had a lot to say about the ensemble I was originally going with, and none of them were particularly nice, mind you. Yahaba-chan got sick of him bitching so he went shopping.”

“Send them my thanks, why don’t you?”

“ _Rude_!”

Akaashi clicks his tongue. He snaps open his fan with a sudden noise, immediately hiding behind fluttering lace. “The novelty of me going out in public with you and not feeling an ounce of chagrin is telling enough, isn’t it?”

“You’re really going to say that? After I went through all this trouble to get you something, too!”

Akaashi looks up at that, just in time to see Tooru offer him a red rose with a grand, gentlemanly bow; the abhorrent terror that flashes through his eyes borders on hysterical. He drops his fan.

“Oikawa-san, is this a confession?” he asks, still as composed as ever, but the beads of sweat forming on his brow are a dead giveaway of his true feelings.

Tooru then proceeds to almost rupture a lung laughing, and Akaashi, annoyed, flicks his forehead with an expression that’d give any death god a run for their money.

“You’d think you’d look a bit more flattered by my proposition,” Tooru bats his lashes at him once they’re seated on the plush swivel chairs around the bar counter. The smirk on his face is mischievous. “If you go on like this, you’ll end up hurting my feelings for real one day.”

Akaashi sighs, the rose pushed behind his ear as per Tooru’s request. He’s solemn when he says, “You inspire the fear of the Lord in even the most godless of people. You truly are remarkable, Oikawa-san.”

“Eh? That’s going too far, Akaa-kun—”

“I’d probably prefer walking into incoming traffic than dealing with a confession from you.”

“Okay, that’s _definitely_ going too far!” Tooru squawks in outrage. “You make me sound repulsive, and here I thought we were best buds by now—”

“I was genuinely terrified. I didn’t want to lose your companionship,” Akaashi replies, grave. He looks like a man whose been through hell and back. “Please don’t do that again. My blood pressure probably won’t take it.”

Tooru clutches at his chest, dramatically wiping away nonexistent tears as he says, “You _do_ care!”

“Enough of that, Oikawa-san.”

“So _cold_! Do frigid assholes turn Bokuto on or something?”

Akaashi ignores him and turns to the flushed bartender, who is understandably flustered by the two pretty men asking to get their orders taken, but still fighting to remain professional. After a swift glance at the menu, Akaashi requests, politely, “A gin and tonic, please.”

“Of course, and for you, sir?”

“Oh~ can you get me a tequila sunrise?” The bartender nods and Tooru blows him a breezy kiss as thanks. Akaashi sighs the same way an exasperated single mother of six would when the bartender blinks, enamoured.

“Can you stop that?” Akaashi grits out, curt.

“Stop what?”

“Stop playing coy. You’re aware how irritating your constant ploys for attention are.”

“But you love me anyway, don’tcha, Akaa-kun~”

“Please unhand me, Oikawa-san.”

Tooru has never been one to pass up a chance at theatrics. He likes the idea of it, how he could stand to have more flair now that he was dealing with varying degrees of caustic heartbreak on a day to day basis, even more. It’s an interestingly common phenomenon, one that doesn’t surprise him at all; everyone’s always breaking their heart over _someone_ , in all sorts of ways. Sometimes, unrequited love means someone with a dead spouse. A wayward son. A distant friend. Any love, as long as it’s unreturned, is fair game.

It makes work difficult, but he’s always managed to the best of his ability. Tooru may seem flippant about most things, but he works harder than anyone else, and is good at what he does, which is why Ushijima was gunning for him in the first place.

Tooru’s always managed. There are always sleepless nights and hours that he can’t take back even if he wants to, what does it matter? Now that he doesn’t need to replenish his needs, he has all the time in the world. All his terrible sleeping habits—which caused all his loved ones ire when he was still alive—don’t mean a thing now. He can do whatever he wants, with no hope of running himself to the ground.

Again, not that it matters. Tooru doesn’t have much outside of his duties. He doesn’t like thinking about when he was alive—and that’s the only thing he can do when he’s not drowning himself in work, or some form of company.

“Who’s the god of sex?” he asks Akaashi, spurred on by his own thought process and feeling particularly haughty. He’s had enough alcohol for him to remember how much he _hates_ everything. Everything, with a capital ‘E’. No exceptions. “What’d the bastard do to deserve it, is the real question.”

Akaashi clears his throat. It’s a testament to his patience that he looks unbothered as he asks, “Excuse me?”

“I’m just curious!”

“I’m sure the Primordial Gods know what they’re doing, Oikawa-san.”

“If the requirement is sleeping with a ton of people,” Tooru whines, slapping a hand to the counter to emphasize his point, “then I don’t get why _I_ didn’t get it! I like to think that I slept with a fair amount.”

The bartender looks at them with concern, but Akaashi reassures him with a noncommittal wave of his hand. “You sound more petulant than anything,” he observes.

“Of course I am! It isn’t exactly ideal. I already know how fucked up the world is—I don’t need a reminder.”

“Terribly pessimistic, aren’t you.”

“I like to think that it’s part of my charm.”

Akaashi doesn’t say anything more as he knocks back what’s left in his glass. “I best be going,” he tells him.

Tooru says, groggy, “Hey, seriously. Who’s the god of sex?”

Akaashi pauses, clearly debating over the idea of staying in his head, before coming to a conclusion with a placid smile as he summons a business card out of thin air and slips it inside Tooru’s breast pocket. “Here. Now I must really go.”

“Akaa-kun, how brutish! I’m all alone _and_ defenseless, to top it all off!”

“See you soon,” he bows, completely ignoring his rambling, and Tooru watches, stunned, as he fades into mist, leaving behind the faint scent of eucalyptus and cherry blossoms.

Tooru drops his head on the bar table with a noise of resignation. When the bartender asks him _is there anything wrong_ , and _where did your friend go,_ he leans forward and hushes away the questions from his lips.

“Forget about this, mmkay?” he says with a pat to the bartender’s cheek, and when he nods, dazed and extremely brainwashed, Tooru takes it as a signal to take his leave. He snaps his fingers, and when he opens his eyes again, he’s back in the shrine, and he falls face first into his mattress with a cry of frustration. Yahaba and Kyoutani swarm him, alarmed by his distress. Yahaba turns yellow and orange, a nag if he ever saw one, and Kyoutani’s just a constant red, but he waves them away.

“I won’t die, okay? Fuck off—fuck off me, I said _fuck off already!_ ” he finally snaps at them, irritated by their endless tittering, and stunned at the unexpected frustration from their usually happy go lucky master, they shrink back and their flames extinguish, just a little. “Shit. Sorry. I just… you don’t have to worry so much, you know? I _can’t_ die.”

Yahaba turns grey, a silent question.

“Yeah, yeah,” Tooru says, and then he repeats it, “Yeah. I’d really like some time alone.”

The flames heed his request, and with one bump on the nose from a hesitant Kyoutani, they flee to the gardens, where they’re most definitely going to be informing Akaashi about his breakdown. Tooru tries to laugh. Come morning light, a distressed fox spirit will be at his door—hiding his concerns behind apathetic eyes and sharp words, because immortals don’t know how to love without turning it to war.

He doesn’t have any other concerns—gods don’t need to eat, or sleep, or depend on an unreliable immune system. That was good, until he’d discovered that nothing tastes the same, really, when you know it can’t quite do what it used to. There was no pleasure in coping mechanisms when you knew it could do nothing—and where there was no pleasure, then there would be no release.

 _There’s no way you can die twice._ Tooru knows that. He’s tried everything from smoking like a chimney to accidentally falling off bridges and nothing worked. _He just couldn’t die._

No pleasure, no release.

* * *

**[ a conversation between two young gods. ]**

Ushijima is not a new entity in Tooru’s life. In fact, he was ever constant; there for his lows, where Tooru screams and cries and slams the door in his face, and there for his highs, where Tooru is bordering on polite and charming and almost sweet. It would’ve been a nobler effort if Tooru liked him a little more, but Ushijima isn’t really one to care about niceties.

He comes by because he wants to, and he leaves when he feels like it’s right. One evening, Tooru decides he wants to talk to someone and they sit out on the porch. It was a summer, Tooru remembers, because the cicadas were loud and almost annoying, and Ushijima was wearing some kind of Hawaiian shirt that was much too loud for him. Tendou probably bought it for him on a whim.

“You’re a _shinigami._ ” Tooru says. Ushijima nods. “The captain of Shiratorizawa. Your particular department deals with unjust death.”

“That’s right.”

“You should have no fear of love; death is a far crueler master. In fact, you must think something as petty is love could very well be an illusion.”

“Is there a point to this?”

“I don’t know, Ushiwaka-chan,” he says, deceptively cheerful, “You tell me.”

Ushijima pauses, looks straight ahead. Then, “You presume too much. Of course I know love is real.”

Oikawa’s head snaps to his direction, his eyes widening with surprise as he sees Ushijima fiddle with the silver band on his ring finger. It’s one he’s had since Tendou, and he wonders how that must work. Obnoxiously honest and eccentrically bold. He thinks they must suit each other.

“I know love is real because it hurts,” Ushijima says, and that was the end of that.


End file.
